


Horse Thieves and Mathematicians

by copperbadge



Category: White Collar
Genre: Backstory, Coming of Age, Gen, Italian Mafia, Mentors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-09
Updated: 2011-04-09
Packaged: 2017-12-08 04:44:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/757186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/copperbadge/pseuds/copperbadge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter was sixteen when he met Reese Hughes for the first time. It may have made an impression.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The stuff about the FBI loophole is made up. We call it "artistic license".
> 
> Beta thanks to Dove, Anya, and Foxy!

"Excuse me. We're looking for Big Pete?"

Peter sighed and shoved the pitchfork into the hay, turning around. "Yep, that's me."

There were two men standing in the doorway of the feed room, both in suits and trench coats. One of them, a beak-nosed character with his hands in his pockets, raised an eyebrow.

"You sure about that?" he drawled.

"It's a relative term," Peter said. The nickname was still a sore spot; he knew he was a skinny kid still, but he'd hit his growth spurt last summer and wasn't done yet. He was already much too tall for jockeying, even if he'd known from thirteen that he'd never be fine-boned enough for the job. "Help you with something?" he added, dusting his hands and offering one to the beak-nosed guy.

"I'm Reese Hughes," the man said, holding up a badge. "This is my partner Ben Daws. We're with the FBI."

"You're here about Chief's disappearance," Peter said warily, letting his hand fall.

"Chief?" Agent Hughes asked, tucking his badge away.

"Sorry, that's his barn name. Running Man, that's his track name. That's what you're here about?" Peter gave him an uncertain look.

"Only in part," Agent Hughes told him.

"Look, I wish I could help, but I told the manager and the police and about a dozen journalists I didn't see anything," Peter replied. "I clocked out at eight. Ch -- Running Man's trailer was already gone by the time I got to the parking lot."

"We're not the police," Agent Daws said.

"No sir, I can see that," Peter answered.

"How old are you?" Agent Hughes asked. Peter drew himself up, annoyed.

"Sixteen," he said. "Been working summers on the track since I was twelve. I know the track, Agent Hughes. I'd know if something had been wrong."

Hughes and Daws exchanged a look.

"We're not here directly about Running Man," Hughes said finally. "We'd like to speak with you, if we could."

"I got feedings," Peter said. "Take about an hour."

"We're not here to make an _appointment_ ," Daws huffed.

"So, talk while I feed 'em," Peter replied. Hughes and Daws exchanged another look.

"You know the High Stakes cafe down the road?" Hughes asked. Peter nodded. "Clock out and meet us there."

"Sure," he said. The two men faded back into the sunlight outside, and Peter got on with feeding the horses.

***

The High Stakes was about a mile from the track, and Peter arrived half an hour before the dinner rush. Agent Hughes and Agent Daws were sitting in a booth, eating slices of pie. When Hughes saw him, he waved him over. Peter stopped at the diner counter to order a soda and then slung his bag down, sliding in next to Daws.

"Good pie here," Daws remarked, mouth full of lemon meringue.

"You here to ask me about pie?" Peter inquired. Hughes chuckled.

"You're kind of a smartass, Big Pete," he said. "What's your full name?"

"Peter Burke," Peter replied.

"Peter, you know a lot of things that happen at a racetrack aren't strictly legal," Hughes said. Peter nodded. "What do you think about that?"

"I try not to get involved," Peter said.

"How hard?" Daws asked. Peter frowned at him. "You lie to those cops when you said you didn't see anything?"

"No, sir," Peter replied. "I was brought up better than that."

"So you don't run money or bets for anyone?" Hughes asked. Peter shook his head. "Any of your pals?"

"One or two," Peter said. "Job's there for the asking. Hard to see a lot of money and not want a cut."

"You ever think about it?"

"Nah. Most of those guys are retired mob. Bad business," Peter replied. "I don't -- "

" -- get involved," Daws finished for him. "Right. You think the mob took Running Man?"

Peter pressed his lips together. "If they took every horse that lost them money we'd have a lot of empty stalls. I thought you said you weren't here for Running Man?"

"He's quick," Daws said to Hughes.

"He's also sitting here," Peter told him. "Look, my dad's gonna be waiting on me. What do you want?"

"We think a man was killed the same night Running Man disappeared," Hughes said. Peter's eyes widened. "We have a working theory that he may have been killed in Running Man's trailer after he'd been loaded for transport, and before whoever hijacked his trailer took him away. The horse may have forensic evidence on him. Could be why he disappeared. We're not interested in petty bullshit like underage betting. We want the killer."

"Who died?" Peter asked. Daws looked to Hughes, who sighed.

"Marcello Borgione has disappeared," Hughes said. "You know him?"

"Sure, Vittorio's brother," Peter said. "They come to the track sometimes. Vittorio's a horse guy, he likes the stables. Their dad lives around here. He's retired mafia. Everyone knows it."

"If Vittorio finds out who killed Marcello before we do, there's the possibility of a mob war. Maybe up here, maybe in the city," Daws said.

"What's this -- " Peter began, and then stopped. "Marcello was in the stables the day Running Man was taken. I'm the last person to see him."

It felt strange to say it, to know it -- and especially strange to say it to men with badges, with guns under their jackets. Peter's hand shook as he picked up his soda to take a sip.

"We need to know everything you saw that day," Hughes said. There was a certain kindness there that Peter didn't expect, almost didn't want. He looked down at the plastic countertop, the little swirl patterns in it.

"Look, I don't want to make trouble, but my dad's expecting me," he said. "He's gonna want to know where I am. Can we do this tomorrow?"

"Vittorio's going to figure this out," Hughes told him.

"We can give you a lift home," Daws offered. "Talk there."

Peter glanced up. "This is serious, huh?"

"Yeah. Very serious," Hughes told him. "Look, there's an alley behind the cafe. Head out the back, we'll pick you up so nobody sees you riding with us."

"I got a car," Peter said, nodding through the window at the beat-up Pontiac outside. His pride and joy, ten years old and falling apart as it was. Hughes turned to give it a look-over and then nodded.

"We can work with that. You leave first, we'll follow a ways back."

Peter spread his fingers along the edge of the table, thinking. "Whoever shot Marcello, they took Chief?"

Hughes nodded.

"Chief's been killed too, hasn't he?"

"Probably."

"Okay," Peter said. "I'll see you at my place."

***

Peter would give the G-men this -- he didn't see them for about six miles, and then all of a sudden there they were, tailing him. He pulled around back of the house and waved for them to park between his car and the trees, out of sight of the road. By the time he was walking up to the back door, his father was standing in the doorway, frowning at the two men in dark suits who were flanking his kid.

"Peter," he said carefully. "You getting into trouble, son?"

"Mr. Burke, I'm Ben Daws, this is Reese Hughes," Agent Daws said. "We're with the FBI. We need to speak to your son about what happened at the track."

"He said he needed to get home before dark," Agent Hughes added with a small smile. Peter's father crossed his arms.

"I got a thought I should call a lawyer," he said.

"Dad -- " Peter started.

"Your son's not a suspect," Hughes interrupted. "He's a witness."

His father's eyes widened. "Peter, what did you see?"

"Mr. Burke, can we come in?" Daws asked. His father considered it for a moment and then stood aside. He rested a hand on Peter's shoulder as they entered, steering him into the kitchen.

"Running Man's disappearance is linked to a probable murder," Hughes said. Peter noticed with approval that Hughes took his hat off as he entered, wiping his feet on the mat. Daws didn't. "Your son was the last man to see the victim alive. We just need to ask him some questions."

"Not alone," his father said, guiding Peter into a seat. "He's not eighteen yet. Even if he was -- "

"Mr. Burke, you're welcome to stay, as long as you don't interrupt," Hughes said firmly. He looked Peter's father in the eye, held his gaze, and waited for a response. Peter sat quietly, waiting for his dad to pass verdict.

Finally, his father let go of his shoulder. "You boys want a beer?" he asked.

***

They made him go over the whole day, from arriving at the track to the time he got home. They'd stop him and ask questions, or they'd make him be precise about things he didn't expect, times and people and where he'd gone, what he'd done. His father sat by, listening, not speaking, but it felt good to have him there. Dad always knew when someone was trying to put one over on you.

At the end of it, Agent Daws asked if he could go over some paperwork with his dad, just stuff they needed from his legal guardian. Hughes asked Peter to walk with him to the car.

"There's no actual paperwork, is there?" Peter asked.

"Not so much," Hughes agreed. "Listen, this was good work tonight. And if this is all we get from you, that's fine. But we need to know what Vittorio knows, and he's not going to talk to a couple of feds. You know anyone who runs with him?"

Peter shook his head.

"What about you? Could you get in tight with Vittorio? He need a runner?"

"No, he doesn't use them," Peter said. He paused. "But his dad does."

Hughes gave him a wide smile. "Peter, I can't outright ask you to do anything for me. You're a minor, and I don't want you in hot water with your father. But if you hear anything, if you see anything, you call the Parkside Motel and ask for room 211. You got that?"

Peter stood up very straight. He liked Agent Hughes. He talked to him like a man. "Yes, sir."

***

The next day, Julius Borgione was at the track. Between races, Peter sidled up to him and coughed.

Julius turned. "You need something, kid? Big Pete, right?"

"Yes, sir," Peter said. He fidgeted. "I was wondering if Mr. Marcello's been around."

Julius gave him a look that froze his blood. "What do you know about Mark?" he asked.

"I just haven't seen him since Running Man..." Peter trailed off nervously. "I wanted to know if he's okay."

"The horse or my son?" Julius asked.

"Mr. Marcello, sir."

"You keep your nose in your own business," Julius told him. "Which isn't my sons, you got that?"

He'd failed Agent Hughes. Peter's heart sank, but he tried one more angle. "I saw him the day Running Man disappeared."

A speculative look came over Julius's face.

"You see him with anyone?" he asked. Peter was silent. "You see him with those Lucrese punks up from the city? You see Lucrese roughing up my kid?" he demanded.

"We see a lot," Peter said, swallowing against fear in his throat. "I don't know about any Lucreses, sir, I just thought -- I'm sorry about Marcello," he said.

Julius sat back. "Big Pete. You got some muscle on you. You see anything, you tell me, you hear? You ever run bets?"

"Sometimes, sir," Peter lied.

"Here." Julius dug in his pocket and pulled out a roll of cash and a slip of paper. "These. Hustle up. There's fifty in it for you, and if you see anything worth telling there's five large."

Peter took the money with a dry mouth and nodded. "Thank you, sir."

***

There were a couple of Lucreses who came up to the tracks in the summer, Peter knew. Marcello and Vittorio seemed friendly with them most of the time. They were into drugs, the Lucreses, and sometimes he saw the Borgiones buying little bags of pills or some weed. Stephen Lucrese was always bragging about a farmer he knew who grew the stuff in his back forty.

He waited a day and a half before calling Agent Hughes. When he did, Hughes listened carefully; Peter could hear the scratch of a pencil in the background.

"It's not much," Peter said. "I can do more -- "

"It's enough for a warrant," Hughes told him. "This is fine. Now keep your nose clean and don't talk about this to anyone. You hear me?"

Peter chewed on his lip, hesitating.

"Peter, did you tell someone about this?" Hughes asked.

"Not yet," Peter said. "But -- I lied to Mr. Borgione, and I placed bets for him and I'm not old enough -- I took his money."

"You're not in trouble, Peter."

"No, but -- I have confession tomorrow..."

There was a long silence down the line.

"The confessional is confidential," Peter added.

"I know," Hughes said slowly. "But in a community like this, Peter, we have no way of knowing if someone like the local priest is in on it. I know you probably know and trust him, but I can't make that call. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Theology's always complicated," Hughes continued. "And I understand that a lie you told to help someone is still a lie. So I have two questions for you."

"Yes, sir?"

"First, do you think God really wants you to do penance for helping us catch a murderer?"

Peter thought about it, really thought about it hard. "I'm not a priest. I don't know."

"Well, I'd puzzle it out for myself, if I were you. Second question -- how specific do you have to be? If you want to confess, do you need to say who you lied to, and why?"

"No, I guess not."

"Okay. You do what you think is right. You're a smart man, I'm sure you'll figure something out. Look after yourself, Peter. We'll be in touch."

***

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned," Peter murmured, the words instinctive and almost unconscious. "It's been seven days since my last confession."

He drew in a deep breath. It felt -- it did feel wrong, to confess to a petty lie for the sake of helping Agent Hughes.

"I have doubts," he said. It tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop it. "I doubt my faith."

It felt like the first real thing he'd confessed in a long time.

"Can you share these doubts?" Father Michael asked. Father Michael had baptised him and given him first communion and listened to his sins for ages -- small lies and envy of the jockeys and pride at school and that night with Melanie Jackson in the back of her dad's pickup truck.

"I just..." Peter made a frustrated noise. "I don't think God cares if I lie if I'm doing it to help someone."

"It's not for us to know what God thinks of our actions," Father Michael said gently.

"Well, not for some of us," Peter observed. There was a soft chuckle from the other side of the screen.

"Have you lied?"

"Yes."

"Do you want absolution?"

Peter bowed his head. "I don't think I need it, Father."

"I think that sounds very proud of you." Father Michael's voice was more severe. Peter balled his fists against his thighs.

"I think a man ought to be proud when he does good work. I think -- " Peter gritted his teeth. "I think being proud shows other people they could feel the same way if they did good things. I'm not sorry. I don't think it's a sin."

Silence. Finally, Father Michael spoke.

"Son, maybe we should speak outside of the confessional."

"I don't think that would change anything. I -- I should go."

"Peter," Father Michael said. Peter stopped, half-standing. "Many people your age have a crisis of the faith, but -- "

"No, I should go," Peter said, and stumbled out of the confessional, out of the church and into the fresh, crisp air. Father Michael didn't follow him.

When he pulled up the drive at home, the dark FBI sedan was sitting behind the house. Agent Hughes was sitting on the hood, feet propped on the bumper, reading a paperback novel. Peter climbed out of his car and scowled.

"Tried to find you, but nobody was home," Hughes said. "How'd confession go?"

"Go to hell," Peter told him, walking past him up to the house.

"Maybe, but Lucrese'll get there first," Hughes called. Peter stopped, a hand on the door. "We served a warrant on his farmer friend this morning."

"You find Marcello Borgione?" Peter asked, not turning around.

"We think." He heard Hughes climb off the car. "We need you to tell us. Going to have to identify him by his dental records or his clothes. We found Running Man too, we think. He's dead."

Peter turned around.

"Hop in the car," Hughes said. "Take a ride."

***

Peter had seen dead horses before. He'd seen horses killed on the track after breaking a leg. He'd never seen one like this though, half-decomposed, bones and guts showing through. The body was in a pit in the middle of wild, unused farmland. Peter stood in the hip-tall weeds and breathed in and out through his mouth. Hughes kept a firm grip on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. Peter stared down at the pit. "You need to puke, just don't puke on the horse."

"I'm not going to throw up," Peter told him.

"Then you're better than most of our rookies," Hughes replied. Next to Running Man's wrecked body was what looked like a bundle of clothing and bleached wood. No -- that was bone.

"That's Marcello," Hughes said. "They tried to dispose of the evidence with some kind of acid. Maybe lime. I need you to tell me if that's what he was wearing when he disappeared."

Peter closed his eyes, inhaled, opened them again. A green sweater, white collared shirt, pair of fancy designer jeans. Cowboy boots, that was Marcello's racetrack affectation.

"Yeah," he said, staring at the rags of green, the patches of denim. The cowboy boots were almost whole. "That's what he was wearing. And that's Running Man."

"All right, you heard the man," Hughes said. "Evidence teams, roll in."

He led Peter away from the pit, let him stumble a little ways off into the weeds and put his head between his knees for a while. When he felt a little better, Hughes offered him a bottle of water and a smile.

"This was great work, Peter," he said. "You did just fine. We're bringing in Lucrese."

"I hope he gets the chair," Peter said viciously, and then wondered if God was actually going to strike him down right there where he stood. Hughes looked up at the teams of agents slowly pulling pieces of Running Man out of the pit.

"That's not up to us," he said. "Just as well."

"Why?"

"Because justice is better than revenge. He'll have a fair trial, like anyone. Otherwise it all breaks down. Otherwise you could just go shoot him yourself, or I could. And don't think I don't want to. But that, Peter, is definitely a sin."

Peter nodded and sipped the water. "Do I have to...write it down or sign something or anything?"

"Not yet. Hopefully not at all. We're heading back to the city, he'll probably be tried there. I'll let you know. You hungry?"

He was. It was strange; he couldn't get the sight out of his head, but he was starving, and he had to pee, too.

The world kept moving, he supposed.

***

The one good thing to come out of the murder, Peter felt, was the trip to New York City. He'd been before once or twice, but it was new and exciting now, traveling in an FBI car, staying at a safe house. His father, with a mixture of anger at the situation his child was in and pride that Peter was so important, insisted that Agent Hughes and Agent Daws stay with them.

"You got my son into this," he said to Hughes. "You're responsible for his safety."

Peter was supposed to be there in case he needed to testify, though they never called him. He sat in the courtroom every day in his best suit, with his father next to him, and watched every move everyone made. It felt exposed, but he felt brave for doing it, too. And, yeah -- proud.

The night before the verdict was supposed to come down, he came into the dining room of the dingy little safehouse to find Agent Hughes sitting at the table, cleaning his gun. Peter sat down across from him and watched, quietly.

"You take in a lot, don't you?" Hughes asked. "Aren't many people your age who see as clearly as you do."

"Dunno," Peter said with a shrug.

"You know much about guns?"

Peter gave him a dry grin. "Pointy end goes boom."

Hughes laughed. "Yeah, something like that. Growing up where you did, you must know a little."

"Rifles, mostly," Peter answered. "Been hunting a few times."

Hughes wiped the excess oil off the gun and offered it to him. "It's not loaded," he said. Peter took it carefully by the grips, holding the barrel down. "Never -- "

" -- point it at anyone unless you plan to use it," Peter said. Hughes nodded. Peter measured the weight of it, ran his hand over the slide. "It's small."

"It does the job," Hughes remarked.

"You ever shoot anyone?" Peter asked.

"A couple of times. Never killed anyone yet. Hope I never have to."

Peter nodded and offered it back, grips-first.

"You been to confession since it all happened?" Hughes asked, slotting a magazine into place.

"No," Peter said. He watched Hughes meticulously inspect the gun, then place it in his holster. "You Catholic?"

"Nah. But I believe in a higher cause in my own way."

Peter waited patiently. Hughes looked up and gave him a grin.

"I believe in justice. It's my life's work," he said. "That's my house of worship, the courthouse. I'm pretty confident if evil exists in the world, I'm fighting on the right side."

"But sometimes you lose."

Hughes shrugged. "Sometimes everyone loses. The important thing is to fight. Whatever cause you're serving."

"You make it sound like I should be a priest," Peter said discontentedly.

"That's not what I said. I just think people should believe in something, and I believe in the law. It's not perfect, but I doubt the church is either."

"No lie," Peter muttered. He rested his elbows on the table and leaned forward, fingers lacing behind his neck. "How do people become FBI agents? I mean, if I wanted to be one."

If Hughes had laughed or told him to forget it or treated him like a kid, it might have ended there. But he didn't; he just gave him an appraising look.

"You going to college?"

"If I can get a scholarship."

"Good grades?"

"Yeah. And varsity baseball."

Hughes nodded. "Well, get a college education, get some work under your belt. Don't study criminal justice, everyone who wants to be a Fed studies that. What do you like?"

"Baseball," Peter said. Hughes did laugh then. "Horses. And math, I guess. I'm in AP already."

"Good. Do what you love. People'll see your passion."

"That's it?"

"We have an internship program. It's mostly filing and nobody gets a gun, but it can't hurt," Hughes said. "Look me up in a couple of years, I'll put in a good word for you."

"Yeah?" Peter asked.

"Sure. Now go on and get some rest, tomorrow's the big day."

Peter got up from the table and left, but he heard Daws entering from the kitchen, and he paused just outside the dining room doorway.

"What'd the kid want?" Daws asked.

"Peter?" Hughes said. "Reassurance, I think."

"Man, I can't wait until this is done, I'm tired of wiping noses."

"Watch your mouth, Daws. He's good. Smart as a whip. We couldn't have made the case without him."

Peter felt a deep well of satisfaction rise in his chest.

"He wanted to know how you get to be an FBI agent," Hughes added. Peter heard Daws bark with laughter.

"Enjoying his hero-worship, Reese?"

"Maybe he's looking for a purpose," Hughes replied. He sounded angry. "Get off his case. I wasn't that self-possessed when I was sixteen."

"Yeah, well, after tomorrow he's not our problem anymore."

"He was never a problem," Hughes said. Peter slipped away quietly before he could hear Daws reply.

The next morning, Stephen Lucrese -- Marcello's killer, and the man who'd killed Running Man to cover it up -- was found guilty of first-degree murder. Outside the courthouse, Agent Hughes put Peter and his father into another FBI car and said, "Good luck. Get that scholarship, Peter."

"Yes, sir," Peter said, and rolled up the window as the car pulled away.

"What was that all about?" his father asked.

"Nothing," Peter said, remembering the balance of the gun, the way the badges Hughes and Daws carried seemed to make them stand taller. "You know how the police are. Stay in school, that kind of thing."

His father ruffled his hair. "Guess we don't need to worry about that."


	2. Chapter 2

The next time Peter saw Reese Hughes in person, it was in the offices of the FBI, five years later.

"Jesus Christ," Hughes said, when Peter was shown into his office. "Big Pete, look at you."

Peter ducked his head, shyly.

"You were a half-pint teenager last time I saw you," Hughes said. "Baseball's been good to you."

"Thanks," Peter said, aware that he was looming a little -- Agent Hughes wasn't a short man but he was slim, and Peter had put on a lot of muscle since he was sixteen. "You look well."

"I do my best," Hughes said with a smile. "Sit down, let's talk. I was glad to see your letter and your application. So you went with the math, huh? You liking college?"

"Yeah, it's great," Peter said. "I have some graduate programs interested in my work."

"You're finishing junior year?"

"Yes, sir."

"I took a look at your transcripts, they're pretty spotless. And frankly I don't mind telling you I'm pulling a few strings to get you through this process. I don't think of it as favoritism; I just know what you're capable of," Hughes said, when Peter opened his mouth to protest. "But we might as well do the whole interview thing. So tell me, Mr. Burke, why do you want to intern for the FBI?"

"I'm interested in becoming an agent," Peter said, well-rehearsed for this part. "I'd like to know how the Bureau works from the inside."

"Mmhm. And why are you interested in law enforcement?"

Peter gave him a grin. "Well, I heard someone say that everyone should have a cause. I think law enforcement might be mine."

Hughes laughed. "This is a farce, isn't it?"

"Little bit," Peter agreed.

"Come on, let's get some coffee," Hughes said, grabbing his coat. "Oh, here's a good one. Mets or Yankees?"

Peter's internship interview that year consisted of a heated debate about the Yankees and a brief lecture from Hughes about where to find cheap housing in New York that wasn't a million miles away from the Federal Building.

***

When he looked back on the summer he spent interning with the FBI's New York office, Peter had good memories; sure, he'd spent most of it filing and getting people coffee, but he got to eavesdrop on a lot, and Hughes sometimes gave him case files to read on the sly. He liked the work, and he loved living in the city.

But he was also there the day Daws got shot -- not fatally, but still -- and the days they lost cases, and the days that lasted late into the night. And sometimes, in the year that followed, while he worked quietly in the library on his senior thesis and considered graduate studies, he wondered whether he was strong enough to do that. Hughes had told him he was sure he was fighting on the right side, but he was fighting awfully hard.

He thought about it when he registered for his accounting degree and throughout the two years that followed, while he taught undergrads and took classes at the same time. He specialized in forensic accounting, which was a lucrative field and something he was very good at -- and when companies began to approach him as he neared graduation, he thought about it some more.

Hughes had a wife, a really nice woman named Isabelle, and two daughters a little younger than Peter, still in high school when he'd been doing his internship. He'd been to dinner at their place a few times, and it was a nice suburban house, not fancy but comfortable. Hughes had said flat out, "Well, I'll never get rich, but you can't have everything."

There were investment companies offering him signing bonuses worth more than his dad's house. There were insurance companies tempting him with commissions on multi-million-dollar recoveries. There were law offices that wanted to buy him a condo in the city. Peter sat there in his little one-bedroom graduate student apartment and watched as the whole world opened up before him. Him, Peter Burke, a bricklayer's son who'd worked summers at a racetrack and had childish dreams of carrying a badge and a gun.

"I still think I could make a difference," he said to Alicia. They'd been dating for almost the entire time he'd been in grad school, more out of convenience than any grand passion, and he suspected she was about to dump him as soon as they graduated. He doubted he'd be heartbroken.

"Well, who says you can't make a difference at a Fortune 500?" she asked. "And you're not going to be ducking bullets in a corner office. You could do anything, Peter. Why settle for being a civil servant?"

"The FBI's not like working at the DMV," he said.

"No, it's a lot more dangerous."

"I still think I should apply," he said.

"These offers aren't going to last forever," she replied. "Look, why don't you do a year with that insurance firm, and then if you still think you should go all militant -- "

"Militant!"

" -- you can apply to the FBI then," she finished.

Peter sighed and said maybe, and changed the subject. But in his head he could feel himself stubbornly digging in further with every logical, rational suggestion she made.

He called Reese Hughes the next day.

"Agent Hughes, I don't know if you remember me," he said. "Peter Burke, I interned -- "

"Peter! Of course I remember you," Hughes said. "How the hell are you, kid?"

He'd never called Peter kid when he'd actually been a kid. Peter smiled. "I'm good. Finishing up my accounting degree."

"Time flies, huh? How's your dad?"

"He's well. Retired last year, he spends a lot of time on his car," Peter said. Hughes chuckled. "Listen, I'm going to be in the city this weekend, I was wondering if I could buy you lunch."

"Sure. Business or pleasure?"

"Little of both. Saturday work for you?"

"Yeah, as long as nothing blows up around here," Hughes said.

"Busy week?"

"Not as busy as it used to be. I got transferred, took a promotion. I'm working in Fraud now, it's a little mellower."

"Not boring, I hope."

"Nah. This job? Never boring. Saturday at noon? That little deli you liked, the one near the Federal Building?"

"Great," Peter said. "See you then."

***

God, New York was even better than he remembered. It was sunny out, and they sat outside and ate huge pastrami sandwiches and chips, sipping beer in the afternoon light.

"So," Hughes said, wiping his mouth. "You didn't just drop in to catch up on old times, did you?"

"Well..." Peter tilted his head a little, acknowledging it. "I'm graduating in a few weeks. Got a lot of offers on the table."

"Yeah? Good for you. See, I told you if you followed your passion people would notice."

"I'm wondering if the FBI would be interested," Peter said.

"How old were you when you asked about being a Fed? Sixteen?" Hughes asked. Peter nodded. "Peter, you were agent material then. You just needed a little shine. With your history and a letter from me they'd do a backflip to get you into Quantico."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously. But if you have other offers -- are you considering them?" Hughes gave him a searching look. "Don't put your fate in my hands. You got options, you should look at them."

"So everyone keeps telling me," Peter sighed. He picked at the remains of his sandwich. "You know sometimes I think about seeing Marcello Borgione in that pit, with Running Man. I think, that kind of crap happens all the time. People are assholes."

"Some of them," Hughes said carefully.

"And I don't know if I could spend my life doing that." Peter shrugged. "But it's a cause. And I haven't ever found a better one."

"If not you, who?" Hughes said quietly. Peter nodded. "The fight's never easy, Peter."

"But you think it's worth it?"

"Yeah. I do." Hughes gave him a sudden grin. "And..." he added, pulling a large envelope out of the computer bag he'd slung on the back of his chair, "I came prepared."

Peter accepted the envelope, opening it. Inside was a thick sheaf of paper.

"Application paperwork and background check permits," Hughes said. "Fill it out, drop it off at the Federal Building. It's a long process -- couple of tests, and the background check is excruciating -- but you could be at Quantico by September."

Peter felt a thrill of excitement up his spine. "That soon?"

"That soon." Hughes finished his beer and stood up. "I gotta run, my youngest has a softball game. I look forward to reading your application."

Peter grinned at him. "Thank you, Agent Hughes."

"Don't thank me yet. You'll be cursing me out by the time they have you doing the physical fitness test," Hughes said.

***

Peter was nervous, and he knew he was acting nervously, but he couldn't help it. The woman sitting across from him was smiling, telling him she just had a few questions to ask, and he couldn't stop lacing and unlacing his fingers.

"Peter Burke," she said, and looked up from the file she was consulting. "You have a pretty interesting history, Peter. The good news is, you've done very well on the tests, so we're just going to talk for a little while, and we'll have you out of here in time for lunch. Sound all right?"

"Sure," Peter answered, and lapsed into uneasy silence.

"Now, your background check says you were involved in a murder investigation when you were pretty young. You helped the FBI with a case when you were sixteen?"

"That's right."

"That must have been scary."

Peter frowned. "Dr. Walsham -- "

"Margaret, please," she interrupted with a smile.

" -- Margaret -- with all due respect, I'm not sixteen _anymore_ ," he said.

Her smile never wavered. "You're also avoiding the question."

Peter stopped himself from narrowing his eyes, but only just. Instead he forced himself to relax. She was a gatekeeper, not an enemy. "Sorry. I've never spoken to a psychiatrist before -- I mean, professionally. I don't know how this is done."

He was positive she relaxed a fraction too. "It's just a conversation, like any other interview. Don't worry about it."

Peter nodded.

"But I would like to hear about your experiences with the FBI at such a young age," she pressed.

"I guess -- yeah, some of it was frightening, but I was sixteen," he said. "I thought I was immortal. I wasn't scared, so much as excited. I did some things I didn't...expect of myself."

"Like what?"

"Well, I ran some bets, to get information out of someone, and I normally didn't do that. I know it's something the FBI does, run ops, I've seen debriefings when I interned a few years ago. Still working out where my boundaries are," he confessed.

"You like boundaries?"

"I think they're important. There are some lines you shouldn't cross. But others you normally wouldn't...I guess it comes with the job?" he hated that he ended it on a question, but she didn't bat an eye.

"Are you worried about the idea of going undercover?" she asked.

"That's pretty shrewd -- " he started, and then shook his head when she opened her mouth. "Sorry, I mean. Yes. Maybe. But they train you for it, and it's for a purpose. And there are rules about what you can and can't do."

She sat back slightly, regarding him. "Your file says you were raised Catholic."

"Yeah, they have a lot of rules too," he said, feeling a dry tilt to his smile. "Most of them are pretty good. No lying, no killing, you know."

"Your job may require you to do those things," she observed.

"I know," he answered.

"What do you think about that?"

He considered it -- Hughes had asked him something similar, once. _Things go on at a racetrack. What do you think about that?_

"I think the world's a lot less rigid than it looked when I was sixteen," he said finally. "Does -- I don't know, maybe I'm not supposed to ask -- does my file say I'm lapsed?"

She shook her head. "Are you?"

"Pretty much. Not formally or anything."

"Can you tell me about that?"

Peter studied his hands. "There are some things, some pretty basic doctrines I disagree with. I had more problems with it when I was younger, when I thought the rules were more black-and-white. Still, I think they both serve a bigger purpose -- this one just fits me better."

"What purpose is that?"

"The law?" Peter ventured. "Protecting people who need it. I needed it, when I was a kid. And I've seen what happens when the law isn't upheld. The innocent usually suffer for it."

"Like who?"

Peter shrugged. "A man was murdered. He wasn't a very good man. But because he was killed in a horse trailer, they killed a racehorse too. The horse hadn't done anything to deserve it. Three people went to prison -- one for the murder, two more who helped cover it up, and their families had to go through that. And I had to stand in a field and look at a dead horse and the guy they killed, so. Nobody got anything good out of the whole thing."

She tapped a finger on his file, thoughtfully. "You listed yourself last."

"Well, murder's a little more important than fifteen hard minutes in the life of a high school sophomore."

He got a small smile for that, and he wasn't exactly sure if it was a reward. "That's very sensible, Peter."

"Thank you."

"Are you worried, at all, that you might have to be on the other side of the equation someday?"

"Sure. Isn't everyone? Nobody wants to walk a kid into a field and show him a body."

"Were you angry they did that to you?"

"No," Peter said, honestly surprised at the idea. "Agent Hughes knew I could handle it. He wouldn't have made me go if he didn't. They teach you that, don't they? How to judge a situation."

"I suppose that depends on how far you're willing to be shaped by your training," she said.

"Was...was that a question?" Peter asked.

"Well, it'd be interesting to discuss, don't you think? Let's talk about your expectations -- how this is going to impact your life," she said, moving them smoothly onwards.

When the ninety minutes were up, Peter shook her hand and thanked her again. He left the Federal Building and indulged in the expense of a cab to take him back to the cheap hotel he was staying in. It wasn't until he was safely in his room that he sat down, wrapped his arms around his stomach, and let out the breath it felt like he'd been holding for weeks. It was out of his hands now.

***

Peter had hoped Agent Hughes would come up for the Academy graduation ceremony, but Hughes called him the night before and begged off. They had a big bust going down, he said, and Isabelle sent her regards. Still, his dad was there and some of his buddies from college, which was pretty cool. They issued him his gun and his badge and he posed for pictures and smiled, but he wished Hughes had been able to come.

The next morning he got his marching orders.

"So, what'll it be?" his dad asked, when Peter blew into the hotel room with the unopened envelope still in his hand.

"Everyone wants DC," Peter said.

"And what do you want?" his father asked, smiling.

Peter tore open the envelope.

"New York!" he said, and looked up at his father and beamed. "I got _New York!_ "

"I'm shocked," his dad said. Peter laughed.

"Probationary agent in the Fraud division under the supervision of ASAC Reese Hughes," he read aloud. "Agent Hughes got me in!"

His father slapped him on the back. "You got what you wanted?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I did," Peter said.

"That asshole owes you for shoving your face in a crime scene when you were sixteen, anyway," his father replied. "Now, let me see that badge."

Peter took out his shiny new FBI badge, the leather wallet still stiff, and passed it over. His father flipped it open and held it out.

"You swear to me on this badge you won't get yourself killed," he said. Peter looked up at him, worried. "Go on. Swear on it."

"I promise," Peter said.

"And you don't let all that power make you into a bully. You do the right thing."

Peter stared at the little gold badge. "I promise."

"And if you're ever jammed up between what's right and what's lawful, you remember what's right." His father offered him the badge.

"I promise, dad," Peter said, taking the badge from him.

"Okay. Let's get you packed up for New York," his father said.

***

Peter had been working for the FBI for about seven years when Reese Hughes retired. They had a party for him, and one of the higher-ups presented him with his twenty-year watch, and he shook everyone's hand.

"Big Pete," he said, when Peter stepped up for his official goodbye. Peter smiled. "Keep the standards for me, would you?"

"Always have," Peter told him. Nobody admitted to crying.

Six weeks later, he got a phone call from Isabelle.

"I'm honestly worried about him," she said, when Peter asked her what was wrong. "If it were just that he's always underfoot, I could learn to live with it; I never realized what a blessing it was that he was out of the house every day."

Peter chuckled. "Retirement can be difficult, I hear."

"Yes, but...well, it doesn't fit him. He's active, he's always been an active man, Peter, you know that better than anyone. He really loved that job. Now he just...sits. Works in the garden a little, but he sits a lot. He's depressed, I mean, clinically I think."

Peter frowned thoughtfully. "How serious is it?"

"If I weren't scared for him, I wouldn't be calling you."

"There are psychiatrists at the Bureau -- "

"I don't think that's going to help, do you?" she asked quietly.

"Honestly? No. But there's not much I can do, Iz. Believe me, we miss him around here, too." 

"Isn't there anything? Can the Bureau hire him as a consultant?"

"There's regulations against it. Mostly for this reason."

"Well, it's a stupid reason."

"Yeah." Peter sighed. "I agree. Look, I'll see what I can do. If nothing else I'll come by. Tell some war stories, see if that helps."

"Thank you, Peter. I know how fond he is of you."

"Look after yourself, Iz. I'll be in touch," Peter said, and hung up. He set the phone down on the dining room table and leaned back, frowning.

"Honey?" Elizabeth wandered in from the back patio, curious. "Wow. You look like the weight of the world's on your shoulders. Who was on the phone?"

Peter pulled her over when she came to stand by him, tugging her onto his lap. He kissed her hair, holding her tightly.

"When I get my twenty," he said, "you and me. Let's go traveling."

She laughed, leaning into his embrace. "Around the world?"

"Sure. Venice, Berlin, Paris. Cairo. Hong Kong."

"Sounds fine to me. What brought this on?" she asked.

"I like my job. But I don't want to miss it when I'm done, that's all," he said. She twisted a little and planted a kiss on his temple.

"Well, that's a long ways off. Don't worry about it now," she said.

"I won't," he promised, but he had to -- maybe not his own retirement, but Reese deserved better than a miserable few decades away from the thing he loved most.

***

"Hiya, Iz," Peter said, when she greeted him at the front door. She gave him a brief hug and a smile.

"Thanks for coming," she told him. "Did you find anything?"

"I better talk with him first," Peter told her. "Hey, Mary!" he added, waving at Reese's oldest daughter, who was sitting on the living room couch, bottle-feeding an infant. Reese's grandson, and didn't that make Peter feel old.

"Peter! Hi!" she waved back. "How's the Bureau?"

"Same old," Peter said. "Seen your father around?"

"He's out in the garden, sulking as usual," she sighed.

"See if I can't fix that for you," Peter replied, and headed through the house to the back door of the kitchen, which opened into a little yard of grass and flower bushes.

Reese was sitting in a lawn chair, under the shade of an umbrella. Not doing anything, just...sitting. Peter could see why Iz was worried.

"Hey, boss," he said, and Reese looked up at him. A smile broke over his face.

"Big Pete," he said. Peter grinned. "Pull up a chair, have a seat. How are ya?"

"Good, thanks," Peter said, seating himself.

"Hey, I heard you caught Caffrey."

Peter nodded. "Last week."

"Kid have anything to say for himself?"

"Yeah, he shook my hand. Real gentleman burglar, that one. How've you been?"

Reese gave him a narrow look. "You don't need to soft-shoe into it, Peter. Iz called you." At Peter's startled look, he nodded. "Twenty years as an FBI agent, I picked up a few investigative techniques. She ask you to come by, cheer me up?"

"Well, yeah," Peter admitted, feeling sixteen again. "She's worried about you."

"So am I," Reese said quietly.

"I wasn't, until I got here," Peter said. "Miss the Bureau?"

"Like you wouldn't believe."

Peter leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped between them. "She asked if we could hire you as a consultant."

"Regs. I looked into it."

"Yeah, so did I, just in case. But I dug a little deeper, too," Peter said. "You know there's an exception clause for senior agents. ADs with five years of experience or more aren't bound by the twenty-year rule as long as they're not in the field."

"I didn't have five years," Reese said ruefully. "Just shy. Another few weeks, I'd have been senior."

"Well..." Peter began, and Reese looked at him again. "The thing is, that five years? It's measured in weeks. Two hundred and sixty weeks. You clocked in at two hundred and fifty seven as an AD."

"So?"

"So, I went back and pulled your personnel file."

"You're not cleared for my personnel file."

"Yeah, but I'm cute," Peter said. "And I smiled right at the archive clerk. Turns out you didn't actually pull your twenty."

"What?"

"You had five weeks off when you had that...heart thing," Peter said, gesturing at his own chest.

"I threw a clot, it wasn't a heart attack," Reese muttered.

"Nobody's saying it was, but it wasn't Bureau-related, so it doesn't count towards your twenty. Basically," Peter said, sitting back and giving Reese the biggest, most shit-eating grin he had, "You retired five weeks early."

There was a long silence while Reese digested this.

"You could come back to the Bureau and do five more weeks as an AD," Peter said. "Then you'd have senior agent status. You'd be exempt from the twenty-year rule."

"Are you shitting me, Burke? Because if you are -- "

"I wouldn't," Peter assured him. "I spoke to Bancroft about it myself." He reached into his pocket and took an envelope out. "Your reinstatement papers. Bancroft's already signed them. I have a file on my desk with your status reassignment and your exemption contract."

"You did this for me?" Reese asked.

"Don't think I don't know how many times you covered my probie ass, couple of years back," Peter said. "I owe you."

"That was my job."

"Not to me, it wasn't."

Reese held out his hand for the envelope. Peter hesitated. "Give me the paperwork. I hope you brought a pen."

"Listen..." Peter leaned forward again. "You have a good thing here. Pension, free time, get to watch your grandkids grow up. You come back to the Bureau, you can't go into the field. Supervisory only. You really want to skip out on this to push papers?"

Reese scowled. "Give me a damn pen, Peter."

***

According to her file, Diana Barrigan was the daughter of a diplomat and a musician, an impressively accomplished young woman in her own right, and a probationary agent under McDonald, one of Peter's taskforce colleagues at the New York office.

Up until about a month ago she'd registered, vaguely, as a quiet background figure, someone who sat at the far, far end of the conference room table and took notes, or brought coffee. There were half a dozen probies in the office at any given time, and in the summer there'd be a dozen interns to take the place of the probies as they moved into field work. In the fall, new probies. The circle of life.

After the Caffrey bust, Peter had asked Jones to do a little discreet digging. Jones reported that Barrigan was a little bit of a loner, smarter than she was letting on, and a lesbian.

"Is that relevant?" Peter asked, brow furrowing.

"Hey, you said find out everything," Jones replied. "I just report the news."

"You think that's why she's not playing well with others? They elbowing her out because she's out?"

Jones shook his head. "I think she's keeping quiet on purpose. You know how it is. Nobody wants to be branded a blue-flamer as a probie. She's building an impressive jacket, though. Been in on a lot of major busts."

"Hm, including Caffrey." Peter closed her file and set it aside. "You think she'd play well with us?"

Jones gave him a grin. "Well, I know you like smart."

"That I do," Peter said. "Thanks, Jones. Go get some casefiles ready for our new probie."

He followed Jones out of his office and stopped at the railing, looking out on the bullpen. "Barrigan!" he barked, and saw her head shoot out from the file racks. He gave her the two-finger summons (something he'd picked up from Hughes, and Jones and a couple of others had picked up from him) and then waited for her to set her files down and come up.

"Agent Burke?" she said, lingering in the doorway.

"Come in, sit down," Peter told her, seating himself. "Things have been a little nuts, but I wanted to talk to you about your contribution to the Caffrey case."

She gave him a slightly curious look. "If this is about the girlfriend thing -- "

"What?" Peter blinked at her. "Oh! No. Well, not directly. That was some innovative thinking."

Her shoulders lost some of their tension. Interesting. They might not be elbowing her out, but _someone_ was giving her flak about it.

"You're working for McDonald right now," Peter continued. "How's he treating you?"

She shrugged. "I know how he likes his coffee."

"Yeah, that's a probie's lot in life," Peter agreed. "And yet you've managed to land yourself somewhere in every major case he's handled, and two of mine. You're our go-to police liaison for the Dutchman, is that right?"

"Yes, sir."

"Daughter of a diplomat knows a few things about political maneuvering, I imagine," Peter said, and then continued before she could answer. "How'd you like to move up from fetching and carrying? I'm opening a new spot in my team and I think you'd be a good fit."

"I'd like that very much," she said, and looked as if she was about to say something else. Peter watched her for a second.

"Great. I'll put in a transfer request, we'll see how you do in the field," he said finally.

"Thank you, sir," she said, rising to go. Peter leaned back in his chair.

"Agent Barrigan," he said, when she was at the door. She turned. "One more thing. You play dumb with me, I'll treat you like you are."

"Sir?"

"You're smarter than people think. What were you going to say, before?"

She bit her lip. "Is that why you had Agent Jones asking around about me?"

"You caught that, huh?" Peter asked.

"He's subtle, but I pay attention," she said, as if she were expecting to get bawled out for it.

"Good." Peter gave her a nod, dismissing her, but she didn't move. "Question?"

"Do you know what they say about your taskforce?" she asked. Peter frowned. "They say it's like the FBI inside the FBI. You're different from the other ASACs. Cleaner. Faster."

He gave her a grin. "They say that, huh?"

"Is it true?"

"I don't know about faster or cleaner. We just do the best we can, and steal the smart ones when they come along," he said. "Go see Jones, he'll have some files for you."

"Thank you, Agent Burke."

"Don't thank me yet," he said. "Just remember this feeling when I make you pull your first all-nighter."

She gave him a fleeting, brilliant grin and left the office, hurrying down the stairs to Jones's desk. Peter watched them talk, pleased.

"I hear you're poaching Barrigan from McDonald," Hughes said, leaning in the doorway.

"Word travels fast," Peter answered.

"Good choice. She's quick."

"I think so. Is this how you felt when you picked me up?" Peter asked, grinning at him.

"Aw, don't get sentimental on me," Hughes answered.

"I would never," Peter said solemnly.

***

"Peter Burke, are you out of your god-damned mind?"

Peter sighed and set the paperwork down on Hughes' desk. "I know. I know, it sounds crazy."

"Crazy is what you pulled in the Lineman Heist case. This is just self-destructive," Hughes said. "You want to spring a felon from prison, clap an anklet on a known escape artist, and give him run of the Bureau?"

Peter winced. "Supervised. I'll take personal responsibility."

"I know! That's why this is so insane!" Hughes insisted. "The first chance he gets, Neal Caffrey's going to run and then you're going to have to chase him down and catch him. Again."

"Look, I talked to him. I caught him twice, he knows he can't put one over on me. And yeah, he's probably playing a bigger game, but..." Peter shook his head. "It might be legal but it's not right. Keeping him crammed up for another four years because he made one dumbass mistake. A big mistake, granted. But he's a smart guy, he's wasted sitting in a cell all day."

"Yeah, when he could be on the outside robbing museums."

"Remember what I told you when I arrested him? He's -- fanciful," Peter said, for lack of a better word. "He has a code of ethics. One of the rules is, you don't screw a partner. If I get him out, he'll feel like he owes me. That's enough to keep him on a leash until I can convince him it's smarter for all concerned."

"Your job is not to reform criminals, Peter," Hughes reminded him.

"No, but part of my job is finding and using civilian assets," Peter said, and then he played his ace. "He says he can help us catch the Dutchman."

Hughes opened his mouth, then closed it. After a moment, he spoke. "He's offering the Dutchman?"

"I don't think he knows who he is, but I think he can find out. Look, I'll make you a deal," Peter said. "Let me spring him. If he slacks or runs or fails, I'll grab him and throw him back in prison, no harm, no foul. If he helps us make the case, I'll take responsibility for him. Your ass is covered, either way. It's win-win for you."

"You think I'm worried about me?" Hughes asked. "Your star is rising, Peter. You're going to be a big man in the Bureau some day, and you don't need some convict pulling you down. I'm looking out for you."

"With all due respect, sir, Neal Caffrey's not the kind of guy who pulls you down," Peter said. "I did some of my best work chasing him."

Hughes ran a hand over his face, up across his forehead, and groaned.

"Have I ever let you down?" Peter asked. "When it mattered, have I ever dropped the ball?"

"No," Hughes said, after a pause. "And I never expected you would. You really think you can keep Caffrey under control?"

"I'd like the chance to find out."

Hughes leaned forward and grasped the edge of Neal Caffrey's release paperwork, pulling it across the desk. He gave Peter a warning look, then uncapped a pen and signed it.

"Keep him out of my hair, and keep him in line," he said. "I hope you're not making a mistake, Peter."

Peter waited until he was out of Hughes's office to mumble, _Me too._

***

Bureau commendation dinners happened about twice a year, sometimes less, depending on who was getting their anniversary pin and who had done something truly outstanding for the agency. One was announced a few months after Neal found out about the ten-year pin, and Peter could see his doom impending. Elizabeth had all but invited Neal, which both she and Neal reminded Peter of in the weeks leading up to it. Even if El hadn't been on Neal's side, Neal's constant pestering would have worn him down eventually.

He would have been suspicious of Neal's excitement about the commendation dinner, except that he could understand the appeal for a social creature like Caffrey. Neal liked parties, and he didn't get a whole lot of opportunity to attend them anymore. Peter privately suspected Neal also wanted any excuse to wear a tux, which it had to be said he wore extremely well.

"This is great," Neal said, returning from the bar at the far end of the room with three glasses of wine. He handed one to Peter and one to Elizabeth, already turning to survey the room again. "Who knew Feds could party?"

"We do all right," Peter said dryly.

"Also, I didn't know Hughes was funny," Neal said. "I liked his speech."

"He saves his sense of humor for special occasions," Elizabeth said. "He did a very funny one at our wedding."

"Your boss came to your wedding?" Neal asked.

"He was Peter's best man," Elizabeth said.

"Seriously? Peter, I'm not sure if that's touching or sad."

"I figured it was the least I could do after I survived the bawling out he gave me over putting El under surveillance," Peter said. "I still have bruises."

Elizabeth rubbed his arm, smiling up at him. "I maintain it was cute."

"He's been your boss a long time," Neal observed.

"Most of my working life."

"How long have you know him?"

Peter did a quick calculation. "Be about twenty years, now."

Neal raised his eyebrows. "What, was he your babysitter, too?"

"Thank you for the compliment," Peter told him. "No, we met when I was sixteen."

"The hell were you doing at the FBI when you were sixteen?" Neal asked, incredulous.

"Identifying the body of a murdered mobster," Peter replied.

" _What?_ "

"I was a witness in a case. Hughes was the lead agent. He was working with this guy -- Daws, what an asshole he was," Peter said nostalgically. "Honey, you remember Ben Daws?"

"I remember celebrating the day he decided to move to the Seattle office," Elizabeth said. "He was a leerer," she added to Neal.

"Anyway, I was the last person to see the guy alive, so they cornered me and asked for some help," Peter began.

"The way Reese tells it, Peter went starry-eyed over the FBI," El put in. Peter elbowed her.

"Little Peter Burke, admiring the boys with the badges," Neal said. "Aw, that's sweet."

"He was called Big Pete back then," a voice said from behind Neal. Neal stiffened, hilariously. Reese Hughes clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Hey, Peter, what was it I said to you?"

"Before or after you told me not to puke on the crime scene?" Peter asked.

"I think I said, _If evil exists in the world, I'm fighting on the right side,_ " Hughes continued.

"Yes, sir, I think that's right," Peter said.

"When you can say the same thing, Caffrey, then you get to make fun of my star agent," Hughes told him.

"Yes, sir," Neal murmured.

"Carry on," Hughes commanded, gave Neal a gentle shake, and wandered off again.

_Star agent,_ Neal mouthed at Peter, wide-eyed.

"What can I say?" Peter asked. "I'm his favorite."


End file.
